


The Real (Fake) Housewives of Washington DC

by LadyGunslinger



Series: A Kansas Hillbilly in the President's Capital [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Pre-War, many OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-13 12:52:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5708818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGunslinger/pseuds/LadyGunslinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, in order to save the world, you have to work with undesirable allies, in undesirable locations. A middle-class neighborhood in the suburbs, however, is simply too much for even the most hardened soldiers to bear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anchorage

On December 24th, 2076, the living souls buried beneath the frigid Anchorage snows in Bunker 27-Alpha numbered two-hundred and sixteen. By Christmas Day, the last Christmas the civilized world would ever experience, that number had dropped to one-hundred and seven.

The Anchorage Reclamation was in its death-throes. For the first time, it seemed as if the United States might finally beat back the Reds... but the War was as bloody, if not bloodier, than it had been ten years before. When the guns finally fell silent that day, most of the survivors put down their weapons and went straight to the showers to wash. They were smeared with blood from top to toe: their blood, the blood of their friends, the blood of the Chinese threat. It all ran off their clothes and sweat-slicked bodies, down into the stink and darkness of the sewers, lost forever in a frigid stream of unspeakable sludge.

The grunts, trembling with exhaustion and shock, laid in their beds empty-eyed and restless. Only one among them slept with any kind of depth—Corporal Lee Rhynes, twenty-four, a three-time veteran of the Anchorage Reclamation. This tour was far worse than the last. Most of the higher-ups worried that Corporal Rhynes would not be able to handle active combat. Corporal Rhynes disagreed. "Twenty-six years ago, Anne Crowley proved that women are capable of surviving basic training. Three years ago, _I_ proved that _I'm_ capable of surviving Anchorage. I proved it again last year, and I can do it a third time."

So they sent her, the only infantrywoman enlisted at the time, to Bunker 27-Alpha and CO Reed's company. There was a peculiarity about Leanne—who would go by Lee to her friends if she had any—a kind of hardness. Though she stood only two inches above five feet in height, and weighed a little over a hundred pounds soaking wet, Lee would fight like a man of a far bigger size. She liked very few of her co-workers, not that anyone could tell who she liked in the first place.

The soldiers of 27-Alpha, from the greenest recruit to the most seasoned veteran, did not give a single shit who Lee liked or hated. She was just some dame, an overgrown runt who played soldier the way some girls played with dolls, a woman who wore combat boots instead of high heels and did not know her place. At best, the men forgot she was different. At worst, they were sickened by her presence, disgusted by her essential femininity. Just like the first drill sergeants who saw her stumble off the bus, a terrified eighteen-year-old draftee in badly-fitting clothes, they could see no outcome for Lee Rhynes but failure. Someday soon they would be rid of her.

Like those first drill sergeants, the soldiers of 27-Alpha got their wish . . . but not in the way they expected.

***

The radio in the bunker's radio room emitted a short burst of static, piercing the sullen silence that had hung around the room for weeks. There was only a single radioman left to hear the first transmission from the American base in days, and he was far too tired to wonder how the communications had spontaneously begun functioning again. It seemed everything in the bunker operated purely on chance. Diligently he copied the message down and took it to the company leader, Sergeant Reed.

The man was still awake, typing on his terminal in the weak lantern light. The ghoulish green glow from the terminal screen flickered in the hollows of his face. Allan Reed was thirty-six years old, but looked twenty years older. A Chinaman had attempt to walk off with his scalp one night in the middle of a skirmish, but only succeeded in slicing the man's forehead straight to the bone. The resulting scar gave him a permanently pissed-off appearance. Fitting for a man who _was_ permanently pissed-off.

"Sarge?"

"Hm?" His eyebrows lifted. Reed would never use five words where one, or a grunt, would do.

The radioman, whose name was Treadman, offered the message transcript to his sergeant. He took it, held it between two thick, gnarled fingers, and read it as the anxious Treadman waited. With each word, Reed's face grew longer and longer. At last, he set it down. "Tell no one about this," he ordered Treadman, standing up. "I have to talk to Rhynes."

"Sir, did you—"

Reed cut him off. "No, this is not my fault. Something's going on—Washington bullshit. Rhynes will just have to find out. Don't spread lies just to give everyone something to bitch about."

Treadman, who would die sixteen days later from a Chinese bullet in his eye, swore he wouldn't say a word.

 

***

Lee Rhynes awoke to the sound of explosions.

She sat up in her Army-issued cot, moving before her eyes had even fully focused. Eager hands seized her gun, stalwart companion of many miles and fire fights. The Howitzers only fired in time of extreme needs—had the situation degraded so much as she slept? Had they—

"Rhynes!"

She jumped out of bed. Bare feet slapped the freezing concrete floor. Shivers raced up her spine. "Yessir!" she shouted. She threw the heavy door open, narrowly missing Sergeant Reed on the way out, and had sprinted ten feet down the hall before a second shout sent her skidding to a halt. She wheeled around, gun held aloft, and came face-to-face with her superior. The sight of his expression made her falter. Why did he look so goddamned angry? And why was he standing around? It was time for action!

"Rhynes. There's no danger. At ease."

Her muscles were locked, trembling, poised on the edge of action. Slowly, under his baleful glare, she came down off her adrenaline. Reed waited it out, looking her up and down with a pitiless eye. She wore the thinnest of underclothes even in these conditions, and no shoes or socks. Most of her visible body was peppered with scars. Rhynes was damaged, no doubt about it. Even if she lived through her time in the army, no man would ever want her. No, Rhynes was marked in a way none of the others were (not even Steiler, the lady mechanic shuffled off to the front lines to fix robots and toasters in relative safety). Even if she found some expensive procedure to erase the scars on her skin, she would carry that mark for the rest of her life.

"Ready to listen, Rhynes?"

She nodded. Suddenly realizing how cold her cramping toes were, she shuffled in place, until Reed's hateful gaze fell upon her again.

"You're being reassigned, Rhynes." He waited for her to protest, to demand why the fuck they were sending her away. When no such protests came, he resumed. "Washington wants you to come home."

Lee did not reply. Slightly unnerved at her silence, he added, "All of your performance reviews have been exemplary. No one's said a bad word about you, not here or anywhere else."

After a long moment, Lee spoke. Like Reed, she used as few words as possible, and only spoke when what she had to say was important enough to risk getting her ass chewed by those she spoke to. It was one of the few things Reed respected about her. "Are you giving it to me straight, Sir?"

If anyone else had asked him that question, insinuating that his information was useless and his word meaningless, he might have struck them across the face. But this was Rhynes. It must have been eating her up inside to dare opening her mouth. He nodded instead. "I feel like it's important that you know. There's a lot of people who'll see your record and still look at you like you're dogshit on a new pair of boots. And you can't do a thing about it, because you're a woman instead of right."

She opened her mouth, but he overrode her. "It ain't fair, and you'll never be honored for what you've done here, but I'm grateful for your service nonetheless." He held out a hand to her, a hand that had ended and saved countless lives since long before scrawny brats like her even dreamed of places like Anchorage. For a long moment, she did not shake. "Come on, Rhynes. Don't bite the hand that feeds you the truth. Be the bigger man."

At last, she shook. His grip was hard, uncompromising, but she did not flinch. Pain was pain. It came and went. He looked her in the eye, nodded his approval, and let go. "Vertibird's going to take you to an oil rig out in the ocean, then head back to DC."

"Why the stop off?" she asked.

"You'll be briefed out there, in the ocean."

"International waters," she muttered, rubbing her head. Outside of any jurisdiction. Away from prying eyes and listening ears. No army gossip-mill to make a big deal out of it. What the fuck was happening?

"Anything could happen," he said, nodding. "Get your shit together."

"Yessir."

"It's been a pleasure working with you. Watch your ass out there."

She nodded. A bit of humor touched her hard mouth. "You watch yours."

He chuckled, rubbing the scar on his forehead. One close call was enough. "I'll do my best."

 

***

As Reed walked away, Lee watched. Her gun hung useless at her side, silenced for good. A transfer. After two-and-a-half tours in the most hellish place on Earth, they were removing her.

Lee was glad Reed had walked away. She had been moments from shouting at him, or worse, breaking down into tears. That old son of a bitch, telling her what she had heard a thousand times before. It was probably an attempt to inspire her fury, one last goad. Well, fuck Reed. She would be fine in DC. There was more to winning a war than throwing grunts at a problem until it stopped.

She packed her few personal belongings and walked down the long hall toward the tunnels that would take her to the 'bird. A few people saw her walk out with her head held high and her shoulders squared. Their whispers followed her down the long halls, but if they saw a tear or two frozen to her face like gaudy gems, they made no comment.

***

The new Vertibirds parked on the hidden helipad made the clunky old plane that had transferred Lee's company look and feel like a kid's toy. The roar of the engine was a constant throb in her temples, even before the hatch at the end of the tunnel opened. The piercing wind from its powerful rotors swept her hair back from her face and made her eyes water. Snow and ice swirled around her, a tornado of glittering fragments that stung her face like shards of glass.

The helipads were located in the shadow of a brooding peak the soldiers liked to call You're Fucked Mountain (being in Anchorage at all meant You're Fucked, so why not name a mountain after it?). To construct the pads, the army had simply sliced into the surrounding mountainside, creating a pocket hidden on all sides by rock overhangs. Many "war experts" and aviation specialists had argued that the descent was too unforgiving, that the allowable margin of error was too small to permit even the most skilled pilot to land there. The wind that scraped over the rock and dipped into the hole should dash any aircraft against the walls. Surprisingly, miraculously, no one had crashed.

Lee crossed the slick concrete to the bird, boots solidly planted on the ground, and tried not to feel like she was _slinking_ away from Anchorage and her duty. No one paid any attention to her, except to tell her how to strap herself into the bucket seat. They had better things to do—this flight was for the injured to be transferred back home, for some to die in relative comfort, surrounded by their loved ones. Lee understood. Her brother, also in the Army, had lost his leg and nearly died of the resulting infection before being shipped home to live with his wife. She sat quietly, her eyes squeezed shut, until the doors closed and the engines cycled up. There was a momentary feeling of strain, the air vibrating... and then lift. They were airborne.

Lee kept her eyes shut. She had no interest in looking out the windows and watching the battlefield retreat from her vision. This was simply another unexpected occurrence. Roll with the punches. Unbidden, the ghost of a memory six years dead arose. She seemed to hear the soft squeaking of shoes on a polished floor, before she kicked the memory away.

 _Let's see. Graduate high school. Check. Get drafted... accidental check. Retire from the army with full honors after a long and distinguished career... going to have to call a fail on that one._ The dog tags around her neck clinked gently. RHYNES, LEANNE M. Her social security number, blood type, and of course religious preference. She could recite the information on them in her sleep. It was, after all, her entire life in a single piece of stamped metal. Her mind kept circling these thoughts—metal tags, blood in the snow, a gymnasium floor—as the Vertibird flew into the dark.

A soldier, thinking she slept, gently shook her shoulder. Hazel eyes flew open, fixing on his face with a combination of alarm and curiosity. "We'll be touching down in a few minutes," he said apologetically. The name on his chest read "Parker".

She nodded, favoring him with a weary smile, and glanced out the window.

The "oil rig" was a rusty spar with an attached helideck. A derelict-looking structure lying wistfully and still among the waves. An American flag was secured to the crane. Turrets mounted on every available surface tracked the Vertbird's progress as it landed with a slight bump on the helipad. From the window Lee could see people emerging from the low, blocky, concrete crew quarters: soldiers with medic armbands.

The moment the doors opened, Lee stood. She was shuffled immediately into a tide of bodies. Medics filled the space, helping the injured out first. Lee went last, following a young soldier with bandages around his head. Clean salt air, tinged with aviation fuel and the sharp tang of metal, filled her nose. Lee didn't care. It was the best thing she had smelled in years, beating out cordite, smoke, and death by a long shot. For a moment, she turned her nose up to the revivifying cold.

"Corporal?" Parker put his hand on her arm.

She glanced at him. "Yeh?"

"If you'll come with me, please."

She nodded. Parker nodded back and walked off, wordlessly guiding her across the windy deck. She followed him down the stairs and through endless metal hallways painted battleship gray. At some point, the group of the injured went left, and Lee and her guide went right.

"This ain't—isn't—an oil rig, is it, Parker?" The people that squeezed past them in the halls all wore sailors' garb—working blues, coveralls, safety boots. Lee felt the curiosity and revulsion in their gaze like acid on her skin. She nodded to them, a silent and standoffish reply to their scorn.

"No, ma'am," he said apologetically. He had a young, round, permanently-anxious face. "I'm not really at liberty to explain the capabilities of this facility to you, ma'am—"

"That's okay, Parker. I get it."

He mumbled, nodding. Deep in the belly of the beast, he stopped and opened a watertight hatch. "Go on in."

She stepped over the knee-knocker and into the compartment. It was empty save for a metal table, two battered government-issue chairs, and a monster—no, a man, writing in a notebook. Fluorescent lights overhead played with the highlights in his smooth auburn hair. Nervously, she stood before him, not precisely at attention. Though he commanded authority, and carried himself as a fighter would, he wore civilian clothes. _With muscles like that, I bet he could pop a seam in his sleeve_ , Lee thought, before panic hastily killed any further commentary.

At last, he lifted that great head of his. Beneath the hair was a pale face, a strong lantern jaw, and piercingly green eyes. If his face had not looked so foreboding and dead of emotion, it might be handsome. "Sit."

She obeyed. Her mother had raised no fools. There was simply no fucking around with a man-mountain in the room. As she took a seat in the hard aluminum chair, he moved his massive hands and slid a packet of paper across the table to her. "Sign."

"Uhh..."

" _Sign_."

Lee grumbled, skimming through the packet. He might crush her for wasting time, but damn it, even a behemoth would not keep her from being obnoxious and reading something before she put her signature on it. "The hell is this?"

"A job offer."

"I _have_ a job," she protested, head shooting up. "Sir, my performance records have been exemplary in Anchorage—"

"I don't care, Corporal." No change in emotion. "This is not a punishment."

"Then what the fuck _is_ this?!" she demanded, standing. This trip—this whole goddamn _day_ —had worn what little was left of her nerves to the bone. No one would tell her _anything_ , not even why they had torn her away from the only life she knew. Now this prick sitting before her like he owned the joint thought he could order her around?! Abso-goddamn-lutely not! "Don't I deserve any goddamn consideration?!"

The man watched her, waited for her fury to echo out into the silence. At last, as rage disappeared and shame took its place, he spoke. Each word was colder than an Anchorage snow, as dense as a boulder in Lee's ears. "My superiors believe you are the perfect candidate for an investigative division based out of Washington DC, despite—perhaps because of—your gender."

"Investigative?" she asked, bewildered. Her anger fizzled, derailed by the utter absurdity. "What kind of secret-agent-TV-show bullshit is that?!"

She cringed even as she spoke, expecting another lashing, but the big guy didn't even twitch. "The _real_ kind of secret-agent-TV-show bullshit, Corporal Rhynes." He slid the paper closer to her.

No more shitty Anchorage weather? No more dead kids mowed down like grass in a high wind? Deep disquiet burned like embers in her belly. Was it _wrong_ to take this job while her fellows suffered? If she took this job, could she _end_ their suffering? That would be worth it. The faces of the injured on the bird reoccurred to her: their bandages, their haunted expressions, their burns and bruises. Could she _stop_ all that? Maybe not alone, but... maybe someone like her could make a difference.

"Fuck it." She bent over the desk and signed her name in childishly-perfect cursive. As she did, distantly, she could hear Lieutenant Reed's laughter echoing in the dimmest corners of her mind.


	2. Assignment

The oil rig was not an oil rig.

Lee and her grumpy companion stood on one end of an immense enclosure at the very bottom of the facility. A swimming pool the size of a small neighborhood dominated the center of the no skid-coated floor. No one swam in it; how could they, with a chain link barrier surrounding the edge? Besides, the water was salt—she could smell the tang through the sourness of industrial interference. It was also horrendously cold. She shivered deeper into her jacket and watched a loaded forklift trundle by. "What kind of place is this?" she asked the big guy, voice slightly raised to be heard over the clamor. "We planning on winning the Olympics in a couple years?"

It was half a joke, but he did not smile or even twitch. "Don't worry about it."

"I certainly _am_ worried, Big Guy... and say, what the hell is your name, anyway? I cain't call ya 'Big Guy' forever."

There was a long pause. When he spoke, his voice was a low rumble. "Charon."

"Charon?" she asked. "Like the—"

"The ferryman. Yes."

"Well, I guess it makes sense. You _are_ kinda ferryin' me to—"

He growled faintly, turning away from her. Lee decided to be quiet, at least about that. Instead, she shifted on her feet and inquired about just what they were doing in this enormous freezer anyway... only to receive no response. Irritated, she gave up on conversation.

The room was interesting, at least. Sailors wandered around, talking to one another, laughing, joking. Every so often, someone shot her a confused or downright antagonistic glance, which she pointedly ignored. They carried tools, clipboards, crates stamped with codes. "What kind of place is this?" she muttered, mostly to herself.

Charon pointed to the swimming pool. There, in the center, a faint ripple. Lee opened her mouth to speak... but her jaw kept falling, hanging almost to her chest, as a tall black shape silently slipped out from under the waterline as smoothly as a knife blade sliding through butter. The slender tower was followed by a rounded, gleaming black hide. The thrum of engines filled the space as the water frothed and bubbled.

"This is a secret-agent-TV-show kind of place, Corporal Rhynes," Charon informed her, with no smile whatsoever at the sight of her idiotic slack-jaw and bulging eyes. "Ever been on a submarine before?"

 

***

The sailors aboard the USS Richard Fisk (SSN-325, named for the 51st President of the United States) had never encountered a woman aboard their ship while it was underway. There were no females in the navy yet; only the army was so cursed. If a woman wasn't dressed in a nurse's uniform or following her husband around on a tour, she didn't belong.

Lee dealt with the silent hostility by telling the goddamn squids to fuck off and concentrate on piloting their tin can. They mostly left her alone after that.

Her companion's presence helped a great deal. Charon took exactly zero shit from any single human being aboard the vessel. Within the first three days, Lee discovered that he hated small talk and sailors, and was immune to (or was quite good at hiding) seasickness. There were a few nights where Lee had to lie in her rack and fight not to vomit. She never once saw Charon visit the doc, or show any signs of nausea.

The time they spent aboard the Fisk was like a dream. With no windows and no responsibilities, Lee lost all sense of time. Around the fourth day, she struck up a conversation with one of the sailors, and traded her one bottle of beer for a notebook and a pack of pencils. The rest of her experience dissolved into bubbling pressure, the sounds of movement from above her head, and the ever-present smell of fried food.

Charon came to visit her toward the end of their voyage. At the sound of a knock on the flimsy door, Lee looked up from her notebook. He nodded to her through the window—or was it a porthole? Was a window a porthole even if it was set in a door? Lee had no clue. She nodded to him, setting her pencil down.

He entered silently, glancing at the rows of empty bunks. For propriety's sake, and much to the disgust of the submariners, the smallest berthing space had been cleared out to split up the sexes. She was alone in here, the abandoned possessions of the evicted still scattered around like rubble left behind after some cataclysmic explosion.

"Hiya, Charon."

He made no response, only stood with his head cocked and his hands behind his back. She felt a moment's fleeting fear. Here, in the watery florescent glow, his features were transformed—the deep green of his eyes flashed out at her like a warning beacon. The child in her reacted before the adult's years of training could catch up. She sat up, cracking her head on the bunk above. Through the stars, she could see her own hands flying in front of her face, palms out, a familiar warding-off gesture. Whatever she had done to provoke him, she was _sorry_ , she wouldn't do it again, if only—

His eyes widened. The movement was slight, almost imperceptible, but it brought Lee's thoughts to a screeching halt. Slowly, she lowered her hands. Before a half-baked apology could even emerge from her lips, Charon interjected, "Combat nerves don't die easy."

She nodded, aware of a throbbing headache and a pounding heart in painful synchronization. "Guess I had too much coffee this morning," she replied quickly. He nodded back, just as quickly, accepting the lie with gratitude. They regarded one another, mute and frozen, as the muffled cacophony of the boat pulsed all around them.

When the silence had spun out too long for Lee to bear, she cleared her throat. "Um... did you need somethin', Charon?"

He stirred. "Hm? Yes. Of course."

"Then... what?"

"Oh." He took a seat on a nearby chair, one hand running through his hair in a fretful gesture. "The Unamerican Activities Force."

"The what?"

"That's where you're being assigned." His gaze did not quite meet hers. "Many are former and current military. General Gray, my employer, will be yours as well."

"I guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other, then."

"My contract is typically combat-related."

"So you're a hitman?"

Annoyance flashed out at her, but he made no comment. "More like a bodyguard."

"What's a bodyguard doin' actin' as an errand boy, then?" she inquired.

"My services were required. I did what was required."

"Okay." She glanced down at her notepad. A half-finished sketch of his face covered the lined page. It captured his sternness quite well, in her humble opinion. "What's this force all about?"

"Destroying the Communist threat."

"Saving the world?" What a silly thought.

"Yes." He shifted, trying to make space for himself in the narrow aisle. Even his hips barely fit between the rows. "Your participation could mean the difference between survival and nuclear Armageddon."

Nuclear Armageddon? Her heart dropped. "Jesus. That's a tall order, fella. I'm not a fuckin' superhero! I'm..." She looked away, cheeks reddening. "I'm a _girl_ ," she finished. "And that's nothing."

Nothing, yes, as people had told her since her infancy. Girls baked pies and made martinis for their husbands. They didn't wear pants in public, or get into fistfights, or kill Communists. If she wasn't a girl, what the hell was she? Just pondering the question made her feel small. She had never fit the mould. Even as a kid, growing up in a typical suburb, she had stuck out like a sore thumb. A bratty adolescent who swore in front of adults and wore her brothers' hand-me-down jeans everywhere except school and church, who smoked pilfered cigarettes with her only two friends, who skipped social functions to drink in the woods. If she had learned long ago that to be female was to be nothing, then life would have been far easier.

Charon crossed his arms, leaning back in the chair, as he watched the thoughts race through her head. "In this case, Rhynes, nothing might be everything."

"What the hell do you mean by _that_?" She knuckled a stray tear of frustration out of her eye.

"Where else are we supposed to find a woman who can fight like a man? Who knows how to use a gun—who knows how to handle herself?"

"I don't think you give gals enough credit. You could train anyone off the street. They ain't dumb."

"We do not have _time_ to train them." He stood up, his gaze now firm and direct. "We have _you._ Regardless of all the other women in the world, _you_ are far more prepared than they will ever be."

"Is the situation so fucking bad that you even _need_ ladies to help?"

"Regular ones, no. A female _soldier_ , definitely."

"So that's all I am, huh?" she muttered. "A soldier? A resource?"

Charon cocked his head. "Rhynes," he said, as though she had said the silliest thing he had ever heard. "What else could you possibly need to be?"

That forced a laugh out of her. It was true. All she had ever needed to be was exactly what she was right now. "Okay, okay, ya got me."

"Good." He left without another word.

Cursing, Lee put her book away and went to sleep.

 

***

The Richard Fisk unloaded at Norfolk Naval Shipyard to blinding snow and frigid temperatures. A car awaited them on the pier, one of the big, dark kind Lee associated mostly with movies and television. It took them both to Washington DC. Lee dozed in the car, brain still humming with the boat's electricity, while her silent partner sat and waited. When they arrived, he roused her and hitched a thumb in the direction of a brooding concrete building. "Let's go."

Grumbling, she sat up. There were still drifts of snow on the ground. Christ, she was sick of snow. She kicked at a pile near her boots. Watching the powder explode into the air was immensely satisfying.

Charon cleared his throat. "Follow me, Miss Rhynes."

Oh, _that_ stung. She glared at him. His pitiless gaze stared back, dead and colder than the ice. "I'm _still_ a fuckin' Corporal, _Mister_ Charon. I deserve that fucking title."

"You'd best get used to it, _Miss_ Rhynes. You'll be spending the rest of your life pretending _this_ life doesn't exist."

Lee swore bitterly. "Lead on, then."

He strode up to the building, opened the door, and held it for Lee. She passed through, smiling at him as politeness dictated. The lobby was government levels of utilitarian, with a front desk like one would find in a hotel. Men in suits walked by, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor, passing greetings to the woman behind the desk. She smiled at Charon and Lee. "Hello, Charon! General Gray is in Auditorium Four."

He nodded. Lee followed behind him, stripping off her heavy jacket, as he walked toward the elevator. Lee leaned against the wall of the tall metal box. "She seemed nice."

"Helen Marsden. Twenty-nine. Lives on Barton Street." He reeled off the information with a curious lack of interest, like a robotic operator. "Single. No children. Parents live in Seattle."

"Uhh..." She nodded. "Gotcha."

He nodded back. The elevator slid to a stop in the basement, opening up into a long hall. Charon led Lee around the corner and into Auditorium Four.

The darkened auditorium, half-full of people, felt like a cave. Lee took a seat in the very back row at Charon's silent gesture and looked up at the screen. A young man's image was projected up behind the speaker at the podium. He wore an army dress uniform. "Gentlemen," said the speaker, pointing behind him. "Private Calvin Wilson. Married. No children. Lives in Serenity Grove, a housing development in Virginia."

Lee squirmed. Charon nudged her, holding a finger to his lips.

"Everywhere Corporal Wilson is transferred, weapons start suddenly disappearing from secured lockups on a massive scale. The best part is, the sonofabitch—pardon me, gentlemen—doesn't even work with weapons. He's a mechanic at Ball Aerospace."

"Ball Aerospace," Charon whispered. "Aircraft, spacecraft—"

"I know," she hissed back.

Oblivious to their conversation, the speaker continued. "We believe that, at his last location, Wilson killed a supply man." _Click._ The scene behind him changed: a graphic picture of a man lying dead outside a Quonset hut. There were mutters from the crowd. "This is what remains of Private John Barclay. Private Barclay was supposed to be guarding this stockpile while it awaited transfer to Anchorage. All the weapons disappeared. The Chinese don't want them to use, but they'll sure as shit take them away from us."

"They're probably selling them on the black market," said a man in the front row. A moment of perturbed silence greeted this hypothesis.

"That's unnecessary speculation, but likely. Anyway, while our plants in the army and at Ball work on Wilson, we need someone to get friendly with his wife." Another picture onscreen. A stunningly beautiful woman in a housedress flashed up. "Missus May Wilson. She owns a bakery... 'Sweet Sinsations'." _Click._ A pretty pink storefront, a quaint little signed edged like lace. In the photo, Missus Wilson herself stood outside the shop in a dress that matched the building, and a frilly white apron. "They tell me the cookies are pretty good."

Warm laughter from the crowd.

"I love their cupcakes," someone in the crowd told another.

"Missus Wilson has a clean record, but she might know something about what her husband's doing. I believe we already have a plan for this..." He glanced about the room.

A man in the front row stood up, a short, stocky individual with a shock of graying hair that bolted up from his head. "We do," he said, his voice gravelly.

"Ah. General. Please. Explain."

As the man walked briskly to the podium, Charon nudged Lee again. "General Jameson Gray," he muttered. "Your supervisor. Head of this operation."

"Looks like a fun individual," she replied.

Charon actually cracked a small smile. To Lee it looked like his face hurt with the movement. She grinned, leaning back in her chair as she used to do in high school. So this was her new boss. He probably had an even less developed sense of humor than Charon did.

Gray stood before the podium, cleared his throat, and gestured at the screen. The slide changed to a row of pastel houses. "Serenity Grove." His speaking voice rang through the auditorium, silencing any small-talk. "Number Twenty-Nine was purchased last week. No bugs, too risky. When our operatives arrive, they'll be largely on their own."

"Can you tell us the operation, General?" someone asked.

"Absolutely." He nodded, gesturing to the screen. "The purpose is to insert undercover operatives into the heart of the issue. Two individuals have already been chosen to pose as husband and wife, newlyweds. The husband will work with Wilson at Ball, become his friend. The wife will work on Missus Wilson. Women gossip. If she knows anything, she's bound to spill it over an afternoon game of cribbage or a book club meeting."

There was a thunderstruck silence. General Gray cleared his throat again. "My receptionist, Stacy Turner, was instrumental in the development of this plan."

A long silence. At last, someone declared, "I like it."

An approving murmur. Gray continued. "We already have our couple picked out. Charon."

Charon stood up. Everyone turned to stare. Lee hid a grin behind one hand. Poor bastard. Had to pretend to be married to some unlucky gal. Boy, what a shitty assignment, forced to play housewife with this giant—

Wait a second—

"—Corporal Leanne Rhynes."

Now the stares shifted in her direction. Lee stared back. "What?" she asked. "What're y'all lookin' at?"

No one replied to her. Perhaps they were in just as much shock as she was.

Over the thunderstruck silence, General Gray’s voice soared. "Corporal Rhynes," he said. "Are you ready to go undercover for the good of your country?"

It was a dramatic, uncharacteristic question, the kind that spur the hearts of heroes in movies and lead toward the big finale. In a movie, the hero would respond with an equally dramatic and suitably patriotic affirmation that sent cheers soaring toward the rafters.

What fell out of Lee's mouth was, "Shit, why not?"


	3. Meet the Ellises

Serenity Grove consisted of two concentric roads lined with neat pastel houses, with a park in the center for the undoubtedly large number of children that had grown and would continue to grow up there. This early in the day, the park was deserted, its jungle gyms blanketed with a thick layer of snow.

The brand-new Corvega Atomic V8 plowed along the road, kicking up slush in almost artistic sprays. Nestled into the faux leather interior, a pair of newlyweds, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Ellis, sat quietly. Though Mr. Ellis navigated through the icy conditions with skill and confidence, his wife seemed determined to leave him entirely to himself until they and their moving van had stopped at their destination.

No one was awake early enough to watch the Corvega park outside the garage of Number Twenty-Nine, a two-story pastel blue house in the middle of Ford Street. A neighbor, hearing the rattle of the moving van's door, stumbled to the window to peek out at the road. As he watched, the couple emerged from the Corvega. He was tall and muscular; she was short and stocky. What a bizarre pair.

The man kissed his wife on the cheek. She laughed. He handed her a briefcase. She took it and walked up to the door, vanishing into the house. The man stood on the lawn, snow settling in his red-brown hair and on his broad shoulders. He appeared to be looking for something.

The neighbor was tempted to continue watching, but the warm bed beckoned. He settled for one last glance before crawling back under the covers to cuddle up to his sleeping wife. Later, after the folks had settled, he would take Phyllis and the kids to go meet their new neighbors.

With this plan firmly in mind, he went back to sleep.

***

Charon expected Rhynes to ramble endlessly the whole ride, but much to his relief, she was silent. The receptionist at the office _never_ stopped yapping.

He drove in careful, uncomfortable silence, eyes on the road. As they approached their new home, Rhynes stirred. She smoothed out her dress and flipped the sunscreen to check her makeup in the mirror.

"What are you doing?" he muttered.

"Making sure I look presentable," she replied. "Don't want to embarrass my husband."

"Don't call me that."

"Get used to it, _Mister Ellis_ ," she replied coldly—snottily, he thought. "You're my hubby now. I'll be sayin' it a lot."

He gritted his teeth, swerving around a garbage can lying in the road. "In private, I would prefer if you didn't."

"Practice for public in private," she recited, voice childishly singsong. "My Ma taught me that."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine."

Lee said nothing more until they pulled up the short drive and came to a stop outside their garage. Home sweet home was a wide monstrosity over a miniscule front lawn. Fences on either side, Charon noted. Easy for people to hide behind. He kept his ears open as he swung out of the car. That was the problem with snow. It had a horrible, muffling quality. He would never see a threat until it appeared right beside him.

_Keep it together._

There were no threats out here. This was suburbia, the most disgusting of institutions. There were no Commies on either side with guns in hand. There might be Commies asleep in their beds, dreaming dreams of fire and destruction, but they were not about to turn Serenity Grove into a battleground. Still. It never hurt to be cautious. Chaos was just over the horizon.

His fake wife picked her way across the lawn. Charon followed. Halfway to the door, he stopped her. "Don't help unpack," he muttered. "Heavy lifting is for men."

She opened her mouth to speak. He could read the hurt in her eyes, tried to stop it with a light peck on the cheek. "Smile," he whispered. "Remember where we are."

Rhynes did smile. She even laughed, as though they had not a care in the world. Just a pair of moony newlyweds, with the point where love disappeared and resentment took its place still far in their futures. When she looked less likely to shout, he offered her a briefcase. "Take this to the bedroom. Put it in the closet."

A nod. No sass or annoyance this time, just a quiet acknowledgement. Her small hand brushed his as she accepted the case. He had time to catch a whiff of her perfume and feel the light sweep of her skirt before she turned to walk up to the house. Dangling from her free hand was a shiny new key ring. It looked surreal, too bright in the bland gray-whiteness.

Charon straightened up, hands on his lower back. Rhynes looked good. Proper, like a woman should... not that he cared if women wore pants or cut their hair short. If they were useful, they could wear and do whatever they liked. However, he had been built to follow orders, not voice opinions. No one bothered to _ask_ for his input on anything except missions. Why should they? His beliefs did not compromise his ability to perform. If they ever did, the project would be a failure.

Snowflakes were playing havoc with his vision. All quadrants full of sporadic activity. No people. Good. No rubberneckers yet. The movers, two members of the Unamerican Activities Force, moved furniture with his help. Both had the telltale signs of firearms beneath their jumpsuits. Sloppy.

Rhynes bossed them around, telling them where to set the furniture. She wasn't entirely hopeless—her choices had tactical advantages as well as grace. Not bad. Maybe she had learned something in the army after all.

Once satisfied the movers would perform to her specifications, Rhynes retreated to the kitchen to unpack the glassware. Charon followed. She already had coffee brewing, and four mugs on the mint-green countertop. Hospitable to a fault. Good act. He leaned against the counter. "Rhynes."

"Ruth," she corrected, opening a cabinet. "Yes, _Charles_?"

An uncharacteristic urge to slap her arose. With an effort, he suppressed it. Some aspects of his personality could not be overcome with conditioning. "Ruth. The movers are setting up our terminal upstairs in the spare room."

"Good."

"The laundry room has a hidden compartment. Weapons. M&A nine-millimeter, Ka-Bar, pocket pistol. Satellite phone. If anything happens, there's a button on the washing machine."

"Got it."

"I'll leave my phone number on the fridge."

"Okay." As though she had not heard, she poured coffee into the mugs.

"Any questions?"

"One." She turned to look at him, sipping from her cup. "You ever gon' stop acting like my Mama?"

"No," he replied promptly.

She sighed. "Okay. Will you give me another kiss?"

"... What?"

She glanced over his shoulder, no more than a flick of her eyes. He leaned in to kiss her cheek without hesitation.

Disbelieving mutters reached his ears. He turned. The movers were standing in the hall, stunned. Rhynes laughed. "Coffee, fellas?"

***

Unpacking took most of the morning. Whoever had bought the furniture evidently had taste. The pieces mostly matched in color. Good. Lee grinned to herself. They had managed to match the appliances to the hideous pastel greens of the kitchen. Even the sunburst clock on the wall had green hands. Disgusting. Too cheap. It reminded her of a child's playhouse, like the kind her sister had played in when they were small, so small, before Dad's untimely death and the installation of the stepfather she had loathed.

The kitchen at home had been full of light that made the lovingly-polished cabinets gleam. It was the epicenter of the house, the room from which her mother had ruled over her five children with a firm hand. There was always cookies or cakes on the counters, though sneaking one too close to dinner time would inevitably result in a smack from a wooden spoon. Once, Lee had come home late through the kitchen door and received a nearly-broken arm from her stepfather, who had believed her to be a burglar. She rubbed that arm absently, her distant gaze out the windows to the backyard. No playhouse out there, of course—they had no children. The spare bedroom upstairs would be his study, combined with her sitting room, just like a real couple would have.

There was a knock on the back door, interrupting her musings. A foreign thought flashed through her mind: _It's Dee, waiting for me so we can go out—Lee, what the hell?_

She opened the door. A wide shadow clad in a heavy coat fell upon her. Luminous green eyes bored into her face. "Hi, _Charles._ " Bitter disappointment rose in her throat, quickly banished. She stepped aside to let her fake husband in. His boots left slushy footprints all over her clean floor. "Goddamn it!"

"Hm?" He looked down. "... Sorry."

"Didn't yet Ma ever teach you not to track filth into the house?" she demanded, hands on her hips.

"... I don't remember."

"What?" Her hands lowered.

"I don't remember her," he said bluntly.

She frowned. It was impossible for her to consider a life without at least a few memories of her own mother—Sharon Adler was a strong woman, one Lee idolized. The few things she had learned about what it was to be a proper woman, she had learned from her Ma. Even though they had not seen one another in years, Lee made sure to write home to her, and occasionally received messages back. A strained relationship was better than no relationship.

Maybe Charon was an orphan.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, ashamed of herself. For one terrifying second, it occurred to Lee that they might be Having a Moment—a glimpse into each other’s private lives and innermost thoughts that would ultimately bring them closer together. God save her from Having a Moment with Charon. A ten-foot buffer of emotional distance still wasn't enough between them.

Charon rubbed his neck. "It's fine. I don't think about her."

Oh, thank God. Moment averted. Lee cleared her throat. "What _do_ you think about, then?"

"Work, mostly." Long, strong fingers drummed impatiently on the countertop.

"Do you ever... stop working?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes. Is this necessary to discuss?"

"You can't pace around the rooms with a gun," she told him. "You need to come up with a downtime activity or two."

His lip lifted in a snarl, then sank. She was right, he knew. He had to pretend to be a civilian. "There is no downtime at home," he said. "My guardianship of General Gray is continual."

"Do you... worry about him?"

"A little. I do not know where my contract will go once he is dead. But he is my employer—I go where I am told and do as I am told."

Here it was already, another Moment on the horizon. Damn, they always happened in the end. Lee swallowed her fear and plunged ahead. "You talk like free will's got nothing to do with it." Her voice was high, artificial. A small part of her, sick and weak, prayed he would not reply—would not open the conversation to something she could not bear to hear.

His eyes still pierced her. "Free will _has_ nothing to do with it. I have none."

She opened her mouth again—perhaps to argue the absurdity of his claim—when the doorbell rang, filling the house with mellow, melodic chimes. Immediately she closed it. "L-looks like we have visitors."

"Then perhaps you should greet them," was Charon's cool reply.

Plastering a smile on her face, Lee walked sedately into the front room and opened the door. Standing on her front step in winter coats was a family—Mom, Dad, a boy of fourteen, and a girl of maybe ten. The man was middle-class fit—slight belly from a few too many meals cooked by his lady, but not yet too big to be useful. Probably worked out a few times a week at the local gym. His wife was small, blonde, elegant. The kids were nicely-dressed and looked politely curious.

"Hello!" Lee said, smiling. "You look cold." She let them in.

The father smiled and ushered his kids and wife inside. "Thank you, Missus...?"

"Ellis. Ruth Ellis." She offered her hand to them. Not a single flicker of distaste from the man or his missus. Encouraging. Her disguise worked. "Charles, come say hello!"

There was definite distaste on Charon's face as he entered the living room, and perhaps the family noticed—their expressions changed in a way that sent a tremor of recognition through Lee like a small electric shock. Before she could identify it, they relaxed. Charon's own face turned pleasantly bland, non-hostile, like a slate wiped clean.

"Charles Ellis." Charon nodded. Lee watched his enormous hand swallow up their neighbor's, saw surprise leap onto the other man's face.

"Robert Denton. This is my wife, Phyllis, and my children, James and Lilith."

"Pleasure to meet you all," Charon told them with a smile. He even shook hands with the kids.

"Lovely what you've done with the place," Phyllis remarked.

"My wife has good taste." Charon's arm slid around Lee's waist.

"Indeed, she does—has she cleaned out your wallet yet?"

Charon chuckled. "She tries."

A wave of pleasant laughter. Lee flushed. Insults at her expense. Wonderful. Why was the woman always the one who ended up mocked for spending money? Men bought brand-new cars and no one said a word. Instead of protesting, she smiled a lame smile and patted the hand Charon had laid against her hip. "Coffee's about all we have," she said to graciously interrupt the conversation, "if you'd like some."

"Actually, we just came over to invite you both to dinner."

"Robert didn't realize your pantry's empty," Phyllis remarked. She had a warm, mellow voice.

"I guess I've forgotten what it's like to move." His face reddened.

Lee was touched. Robert meant well. His life was one of full fridges and punctual meals. Lee herself could remember her very first barracks room—the idiot shock that greeted her when she realized groceries and cooking utensils were her duty. Life was a series of new revelations in much the same manner—you just added more people to that circle of responsibility.

"It's all right," Lee said with a smile, hoping to bridge the gap a little. "I have to go marketing."

"Well, how about a meal with us tonight?" Phyllis suggested. "Six?"

"That would be lovely," Charon replied. "We'll be there."

That seemed to satisfy the Dentons. Anything that satisfied their new friends was enough for Lee.

***

Dinner was delightful, scrumptious, and free of any embarrassing mishaps... right up until the last twenty minutes.

The post-dinner cups of coffee had been poured by a Mister Handy named Ellsworth, the children sent off to play as they wished. Lee and Charon swapped small-talk with Phyllis and Robert, gathering information about the neighborhood and the neighbors under the guise of curious newcomers. The Dentons were earnest and helpful, filling their ears with fifteen years of Serenity Grove gossip.

They had just come around to Mrs. Mitchell's pie competition fiasco when a sudden _bang!_ cut off the conversation. Phyllis and Robert merely twitched, their heads turning curiously in the direction of the noise—then snapped to Charon and Lee as the pair leapt to their feet. Charon bolted to the window, flicking back the lace curtain. Lee opened her mouth, ready to order the Dentons to move, _now_! —and stopped. Their huge eyes. Phyllis's hand clutching the linen tablecloth in a death grip. Lee sank into her seat and wished she could disappear.

"Backfire," Robert suggested tentatively. "Or old Frank Cutler's war movies again."

Charon moved from the window, settling back into his seat. "Of course."

The Dentons smiled, but Lee caught a glimpse of that expression again. As she looked down into her nearly-empty cup, an image of their neighbors back in Kansas reoccurred to her. That same expression, more pronounced, had flashed onto their faces when Lee's mother introduced them. Even as a teenager, Lee noticed that normal people always looked the same when meeting someone abnormal, like a girl in jeans with a cigarette behind her ear—or a couple who jumped at loud noises.

"My brothers fired off a BB gun outside our front window once," she heard herself remarking lightly. "Shattered the picture window and scared my mother half to death."

No comment would heal the steadily-widening chasm between them now. The Dentons lived in security, where no one tried to kill them in the middle of the night. But perhaps her story went a long way toward soothing their uncertainties, for Phyllis smoothed down the tablecloth in a graceful motion as her husband lit up a cigarette.

"Frank Cutler, who lives behind us, likes to shoot the squirrels," Robert explained, releasing a cloud of smoke. "Almost came to blows with him once over scaring my kids."

"He was in the war," said Phyllis dismissively. "Crazy as a loon, that one. They shouldn't even let him _be_ here—he's dangerous."

"He's a hero," Charon and Lee chorused.

"Well, yes." Mildly startled, Phyllis caressed the tablecloth again. "But that's no excuse to be a ruffian."

Lee opened her mouth—and closed it. Charon's face was all the restraint she needed. Damn, it was like he knew what she was thinking! She compromised with a lame nod and sipped her coffee to hide her twitching mouth.

"We should really be going," Charon spoke up. "We still have work to do."

"Of course." Phyllis stood. She was smiling again, ever the graceful host. For that, Lee was grateful. It soothed the sting of feeling like a kid again.

They said a quick goodbye and left the Denton residence. walking back to their own house. Charon said nothing on the trip back, though as they closed the front door, Lee braced herself for a shout. Her fake husband did nothing more than heave a deep sigh and flop down on the couch, oblivious to the creaking of the frame.

"Well," she muttered, standing in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips, "that was a disaster."

"I think we did well," was Charon's mild reply. "We are a mildly eccentric couple."

A startled laugh burst out of her and rolled into the silence of the cold house (here Lee made a mental note to turn the damn heat up). "Mildly eccentric don't _begin_ to cover it, sweetheart," she retorted. "We looked like pure-D fools."

"No one will suspect a thing. Especially if we learn how to be... domestic." His upper lip curled in a way that nearly drew a laugh from Lee.

"Right. Learning how to be domestic is important," she replied, hiding a smile behind her hand. "Speaking of which, you still need to pick that free time activity."

Mercifully, Charon did not notice. "As I told you," he replied, "my sole activity is guardi—"

"Yes, but what do you _do_? Y'can't tell me you're constantly at the man's shoulder."

"Almost constantly."

"Jesus, Big Guy." Lee muttered, disgusted. "And you live with him, huh?"

"And his family."

"He has a fam'ly?"

"Wife, daughter, son. Son's out of the house. Jonathan, twenty-one, military academy."

There was that weird telephone-operator voice again. She frowned, tugging on a lock of hair. Was that voice practiced... or programmed? It seemed too consistent even for a military upbringing. "They must pay you well," she remarked.

"... Yes." He cleared his throat. "I clean and maintain weapons. Sometimes I read."

"Mm. Reading's good. As long as you're not reading _Guns and Bullets._ "

Nodding, Charon looked down at the floor. "I will acquire books that I find suitable for Charles Ellis's life."

"Good. I'll get groceries. Whatcha like?"

He turned to face her, eyes luminous in the blue-tinted dark. Lee turned on a lamp to dispel the gloom. “I am partial to mac n’ cheese,” he stated simply.

Lee hid a grin behind one hand. Charon was a pain, but he was funny… sometimes without even knowing it. Somehow that made it even funnier. “Eech. I won’t buy you that store-bought shit. I’ll make it.”

“You… can cook?”

“Well, shit, of course! You either learn or starve.”

“I see.”

Lee thumped his arm lightly. It was akin to punching a padded wall. “Don’t worry. I won’t poison ya. I’ll make ya a good lunch every mornin’, keep you from having to raid the Eat’o’tronics for sustenance.”

She had been hoping for another smile, but of course, the universe was not feeling kind. Charon merely consulted the clock and stretched his long arms. “It’s late. We should go to bed.”

“Well, we’s both adults,” Lee said, shrugging carelessly. “We can share the bed. _I_ don’t snore, but if you do, I’ll smother you with a pillow.”

“You can _try_ ,” he retorted.

Grinning, she punched his arm again. “C’mon, hubby. Let’s go snuggle.”

“I do not _snuggle._ ” He stood up to his full height. Shit, wrong move. Lee tried to retreat, but his hand shot out and clamped down on her upper arm. Struggling did no good. He brought her close, his face mere inches from hers. “Listen, _Rhynes._ ” His breath was warm on her face, his eyes shining bright and hard with unbridled hate. “Let’s lay down some ground rules. Right now. I do not _cuddle._ I will not spend _family time_ with you. We are here to _work._ You are here to make friends with Wilson and Wilson _only._ And when we’re in private, my name is _Charon._ Fabricate whatever lie you want about what we do in our spare time to appease the other housewives—none of what you say matters a damn anyway.”

She was silent. Of course, he was right. When had she ever thought he was capable of taking a damn joke? Or had this been building all night, the steadily-simmering resentment, the way it happened to real couples over the course of months or years? Was this how things began to unravel?

Charon gave her a hard little shake, jarring her from her thoughts. “ _Got it_?”

“All right, goddammit, you big bully. I’m just tryna make this mission easier!” She spoke in a voice intended to be querulous, but only came out scared. Real tears stood out in her eyes. “There’s no reason to be a fuckin’ prick about it!”

He gave her another shake, then let go. Lee pulled back, rubbing her arm. “Fuck you, man. That’s gonna bruise.”

“No, it won’t,” he replied calmly.

“I’m going to bed.” Huffing, she turned away, crossing the living room to the stairs on shaky legs, praying he would not see how close to crying she really was. Charon turned to the window, watching the snow, as though she wasn’t even there.

Upstairs, she changed in the dark and laid down in a bed that felt roughly the size of an ocean. She laid atop the comforter on her back, sinking into the pillow and staring up at the ceiling. A headache beat at her temples and behind her eyes. God, she missed her cot. At least she would have slept in it alone. She punched the pillow on Charon’s side of the bed a few times, just for the hell of it. Better than trying to punch the man himself. This had been a _terrible_ first day. How could she live like this for weeks or months?

_Simple survival. Get through it day to day. Keep your head down, do the job. You’ve survived worse than this sonofabitch… yeah..._

In the darkness of some late hour, the bed shifted. Lee’s eyes flew open, her uneasy sleep immediately broken. Charon laid down on the far edge of the bed. A great gulf lay between them, one Lee did not dare cross. He faced the ceiling, tucked his hands behind his head, and spoke into the dark.

“I’m sorry.”

She said nothing, let the words fade up into the ceiling. Charon shifted. She could hear the dim popping of his spine and shoulders. “All you’ve done is try to make this easier on both of us. A little levity isn’t a crime. I lost my temper.”

“It’s just a mission,” she replied, equally soft. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It _does_ matter. _You_ matter. You are as much a part of this as I am. Without you to balance me, I would stand out.” He sighed. “You are more than an accessory. You are, for now, my partner.”

Touched, Lee reached out across the cold gap to pat his arm. He flinched, but did not strike back. “It’ll be okay,” she told him. “We’ll figure this out somehow. Eventually we’ll just wear down each other’s rough edges and learn to cooperate.”

He laughed softly, and Lee smiled. Maybe it would be okay after all. “... Go to sleep, Ruth,” he said. “We have a long day ahead of us.”

“G’night, doll.”


End file.
